


The Madness of Dead and Broken Things

by EstherRuth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jon's got them post-resurrection blues, Pre-Battle Sex, Season/Series 06, Smutty Angst, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EstherRuth/pseuds/EstherRuth
Summary: The first time, Jon tells himself it’s the last time.---Jon gives into his feelings for Sansa the night before the Battle of the Bastards, telling himself he'll die the next day. He isn't prepared for the after of survival.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 237





	The Madness of Dead and Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> Am I posting too much? Probably! But I've got some one-shots I've basically been sitting on. I'm a bit self-conscious of this one, but I hope you enjoy. Also Jon had a pre-canon crush on Sansa, you have been warned <3

The first time, Jon tells himself it’s the last time. And it makes sense, he thinks. Because the next day he is to face the Bolton bastard’s army. He isn’t going to survive, he thinks. Rickon isn’t going to survive. But what echoes the most in his head, blazing across his consciousness in a way he can barely push aside is the thought that _she_ will not survive.

Sansa. ( _I’m not going back there alive, do you understand me?)._

And what is he to do with it? That madness? That sheer and utter helplessness to save the one he loves most? The one whom he knows he cannot live without?

Sansa. Even though she is his sister. Even though the way he feels is completely unbrotherly, the way he loves her some twisted version of what should have been pure. But that had never been him, not truly. No, truly he had always loved Sansa in a way a brother shouldn’t love his sister. He’d been in love with Sansa since they were children. He resolved to die with that secret; his twisted love for Sansa unknown to anyone but him. But then he had died and come back. Keeping it secret didn’t seem to matter anymore.

And so he takes her right there in his tent, battle plans momentarily forgotten. He takes what she gives so willingly. He cannot believe it, when she is receptive to his touch, to that first testing kiss he’d given her that had quickly grown desperate, tongues meeting again and again, his hands grasping her—her neck, her hips, her breasts, pulling her body to his, and she takes it all, meets him stroke for stroke, twists her fingers in his hair, clutches onto him. Wraps her legs around him when he picks her up to carry her to his bed.

He had thought it was just him. But then he thinks, and again feels that helplessness he cannot shake, he is not the only one who is broken. She is beautiful, soft, warm. She is fierce. She is hot and tight for him when he takes her. She moans and writhes. She is perfection.

(But broken too).

He is not so arrogant as to believe he is healing her. To believe she will be put back together as he loves her. But he loves her all the same. Gives what he can. Even when he fears he takes more than he can give back to her. Selfish. A broken thing in his skin. About to die again. Does it make fucking his own sister a less shameful thing?

To thrust madly into her, a steady and sinful grind of their hips. To whisper filthy things in her ear as he picks up his pace and her arms and legs lock around him. _Gods, yes. That’s it. Fuck, you take my cock like you were made for it. Perfect, tight little cunt just for me. That’s it, Sansa. Just like that._

Is it less shameful for him to cum inside her? To spill his seed where it may take root? Because this is only one night. This is only all it could ever be. They won’t live long enough for the shame to seep in the way it should. Or that is what he tells himself.

And then, they live.

\---

The next time, Jon tries to avoid as best he can. Avoided being alone with her. Couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. Gotten her moon tea and left it in her room like a coward instead of facing her.

Still it doesn’t stop him from stroking himself to completion at the thought of her every single night. At the memory of driving his cock into his sister’s sweet cunt over and over.

He is a false man. A bastard King. He defiled his sister. One who had already been used and abused in nearly every way a woman could be. How exactly could he live with himself? Perhaps he was still dead.

Because his eyes always found her when she entered a room. Always followed the line of her waist, the curve of her breasts and the sway of her hips. He always remembered the way she cried his name as she clenched around him.

That second time, Sansa comes to him at night in his bedchambers. She slips her robe and shift from her shoulders, baring her body to his roaming eyes as he drinks her in greedily.

“I need you,” she tells him as she climbs into his bed. As she grabs one of his hands and brings it to her breast.

“We can’t,” he says, even as he has already begun squeezing her breast in his hand and pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, watching the peak harden in fascination. Neither of them believes his protest, but he has to say it. What a feeble grasp at honor it is. Perhaps worse than just giving in because it is just a lie.

“We can,” she says and leans forward to take his mouth with her own. He doesn’t even pretend to resist. He pulls her closer, shoves his tongue into her mouth and is rolling her onto her back, pinning her body beneath his own.

\---

The third time, Jon wonders if he’s losing count. What happens once he takes her multiple times in the same night? Is each one a new sin? A new shameful thing to beg forgiveness for in the Godswood and at his father’s statue? So he stops counting.

Sansa has a rapidly growing appetite and curiosity. How exactly is Jon supposed to resist it? When she lets him fuck her from behind, his hand tangled in her hair. When she moans for him. When she rides him into oblivion. When she lets him cum inside her. Gods, he hasn’t even asked her about moon tea. Not since he first left it in her room.

(Because part of him even hopes he gets her with child. Wants to watch Sansa grow round from his seed and her breasts grow fuller, marking her further as his. Wants everyone to know how he makes her cum with his hands, his mouth, his cock. Wants them to know she is only his. Wants them to know how she cries out in pleasure, head thrown back and lip between her teeth when he’s inside of her).

He is greedy. Feverish. Completely and utterly bewitched. Incapable of stopping. Obsessed and possessive. She is his love. She is his. Madness—he knows. Absolute madness.

_We cannot come back from this_ , Jon tells her absurdly as he’s buried inside her.

_Why would you want to go back?_ Sansa asks him.

A thrill shoots through him at her words and he thrusts into her harder and faster in response. Feels her cunt pulsating around him. Why would he want to go back? He had always loved her. Now he had her, and she was everything he could ever dream and more for this broken, once dead bastard King.

_I don’t,_ he pants just before he spills inside her.

The admission is his damnation. It is his truth.


End file.
